Ramblings and Roses Rachel Shoop
I am sick. Not like “cough-cough” sick, but like chemotherapy sick. For the sake of my story and to save some time, the type of sickness doesn’t matter, but all you need to know is that it requires me to visit the hospital more times than any human should. I guess going to chemo isn’t as bad as it once was. Like, before the new children’s hospital was built, I always went to an outdated pediatric specialty clinic for my chemo. It had these yellowing walls and faded paintings of unrecognizable shapes like clouds and airplanes. Not to mention it was full of sick kids. Chemotherapy is already a pretty nasty thing, but throw in some innocent children, and you get the closest thing to hell on Earth. For me, I was one year away from being a legal adult when I first entered the children’s cancer center, so I had to witness these young kids throwing up or being knocked out while getting poison injected into their bodies. I had to hear small babies crying in the room next to me because of how unfair life is, and I had to endure that messed up shit while also putting poison in my body. I knew it was depressing, and my dad—the person responsible for taking me to chemo—also knew it was fucked up. I don’t know if it’s like a sixth sense or just plain common sense, but my dad always knows I feel terrible after every round of chemo. So, to make me feel better, my dad and I always go to Trader Joe’s after every hospital visit. And I know what you are all probably thinking, “but it’s just a grocery store, how can getting groceries make a person feel
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